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Hog butcher for the world, Tool maker, stacker of wheat, Player with railroads and the nation's freight handler Stormy, husky, brawling, City of big shoulders.
Carl Sandburg
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Carl Sandburg
Age: 89 †
Born: 1878
Born: January 6
Died: 1967
Died: July 22
Biographer
Historian
Journalist
Musicologist
Novelist
Poet
Screenwriter
Trade Unionist
Writer
Galesburg
Illinois
Carl August Sandburg
Nation
Wheat
Handler
Player
Maker
Huskies
Cities
Makers
Freight
Nations
Tool
Hog
Bigs
Chicago
Butcher
World
Shoulders
Butchers
Tools
Stormy
Brawling
City
Railroads
Husky
More quotes by Carl Sandburg
Calling it off comes easy enough if you haven't told the girl you are smitten with her.
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Man is a long time coming. Man will yet win. Brother may yet line up with brother: This old anvil laughs at many broken hammers.There are men who can't be bought.
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There is an eagle in me that wants to soar.
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I've written some poetry I don't understand myself.
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Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen during the moment.
Carl Sandburg
Time is a sandpile we run our fingers in.
Carl Sandburg
Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable.
Carl Sandburg
Under the harvest moon, When the soft silver Drips shimmering Over the garden nights, Death, the gray mocker, Comes and whispers to you As a beautiful friend Who remembers.
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Often I look back and see that I had been many kinds of a fool-and that I had been happy in being this or that kind of fool.
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Tell me if the lovers are losers... tell me if any get more than the lovers.
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Newspapers tell beforehand what is going to happen - maybe.
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Time is the coin of your life. You spend it. Do not allow others to spend it for you.
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a women is like a tea bag.it's only when she is in hot water that you realize how strong she is.
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Poetry is a sky dark with a wild-duck migration.
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The impact of television on our culture is just indescribable.
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Two bubbles found they had rainbows on their curves. They flickered out saying: It was worth being a bubble, just to have held that rainbow thirty seconds.
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And even now she beats her head against the bars in the same old way and wonders if there is a bigger place the railroads run to from Chicago where maybe there is romance and big things and real dreams that never go smash.
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Poetry is the journal of the sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air. Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.
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Nothing happens unless first we dream.
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A liar goes in fine clothes, a liar goes in rags, a liar is a liar, clothes or no clothes.
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